Breast-Less by Choice

Abstract

When I was twelve years old, my mother told me that she would pay for my breast surgery. I figured she was just picking on me again. She invariably thought I was too fat or too thin; my eyebrows were too thick, my legs too long, my torso too short, my hair too light, my skin too dark. Like certain primate mothers, my mother had a need to pick and preen. The minute I walked in the door, she saw things about me that called out for her attention. Maybe it was because she loved me, but it seemed I could never live up to her expectations. Or maybe this was just one of those things Chinese mothers did, but had my mother gone too far this time - offering cosmetic surgery to a seventh grader?